Down Came The Rain
by themanonthemoon
Summary: Carl Powers' last moments. John laments. Sherlock's childhood. The making of Moriarty. Mycroft in the case of brothers. Mrs Hudson and the man she met in the rain. The question is: Who saved the itsy-bitsy spiders? A series of post-fall drabbles.
1. Ignorance

Ignorance - a spider who lies

Mama was never really one for nursery rhymes, but then again, Papa was worse. Nana never came to visit and Grandpa died - yes _died_, (as Papa was told to be extremely frank with his children, who at time, subsequently took an interest in learning the art of post-mortem).

Papa always encouraged his boys to be at the best of their ability, Nana always insisted them to be the best at everything. As for mama, well, she was out of the picture ever since they learnt how to demand for skimmed bottled milk... And partially because since Nana had to move in after Grandpa died.

The boys never really took interest in house politics so their memories of childhood were somewhat limited to those that particularly stood out, which were close to none. Mainly, because, when the time calls for it, they will eventually be deleted from their minds, which they proclaim to be their hard drives_. _

_Some men were born great, while others have greatness thrust upon them._ It was a quote, their Papa told them, that dead Grandpa used to say. The boys knew if their Grandpa was ever Shakespeare, he wouldn't have died the way he did. He would have been stabbed through the heart by Nana - an image that was surprisingly quite easy to picture.

Nana, preparing his coffin handcrafted by herself in advance, her famous pie knife, all sharpened and glistening in the dim moonlight, her haggard back cracking as loud as the floorboards she makes her way to his bed. Her ugly shadow cast on every other end of the house - moving slower than a tortoise, and looking very much like a toad. Her faint croaking becoming louder and louder by the second... Or was that Grandpa's snoring? Maybe she was going to cut his tongue out and eat it. Just like she did to Mama who barely utters a word in her presence.

For a long time, Nana remained, the ultimate villain in the children's lives. She was the baddest of the bad. She was mastermind behind every misfortune. She was the Hitler of the House, with the family being the Germans, and Mama being the single Jew. At this point, one would feel sorry for Mama's constant discrimination but she_ deserved_ it, they felt, because she was _different_. She would be the only one who would cry during sad movies, kiss her children goodbye before school ( which they disliked tremendously), plant daisies because she just _liked to._Mama's uncivilized upbringing was too much for Nana to handle, in fact, she whacked Papa with a broomstick relentlessly when she'd found out he had fallen in love with their neighbor's daughter - the little round girl who had the kindest of faces and the blackest of hair.

As time flew, Nana gained a willing accomplice. Unfortunately for the younger brother, his older sibling decided to move to the dark side after realizing his pathetic position in the household's social hierarchy. Being 7 years senior to his younger brother, the realization dawned to him after he realized he had already outranked Mama in the list. His quest for power was tireless. And in the end, their evident struggle of power began to come to a triumph close for the older boy.

Nana didn't die, said Papa. _She passed away._

The children didn't seem completely satisfied with the answer as the thought of Nana not being completely dead, ran shivers down their spines. As confused as they were, they accepted her passing as a turn for the better. Better, meaning Mycroft, who was now a ripe age of 21 overthrew his weak father in his never ending quest for power ( a habit which probably earned him the 'minor position' in the government). Mama remained the same, however her tongue returned after the funeral.

Sherlock who had just entered his long dreaded pubescent years, stepped up from his previous rank as 'younger' brother to ( in the words of Mycroft) a worthy human being. At least, that's how he assumed since Mycroft stopped locking him in cupboards. Despite the fact that Sherlock had indeed considered himself worthy since the time he was born, he quickly remembered that a little while later after that, he had wanted to become a pirate, a memory which he knew, would forever lose an argument to Mycroft.

Nana's passing meant there were new rules in the house. Mama had made them clear whenever Mycroft was out for work. "It's like the daisies, are growing again. The rain has finally come down."

Sherlock rolled his eyes, why was it him who was stuck at home with this delusional woman whom he was forced to refer to as his 'mother'? Either way, if it were he, he would have cursed the blasted rain for not getting rid of the bloody spiders that rented the empty spaces in the house. It was incredibly distracting and a complete waste of limited human thinking space.

Those mindless creatures didn't deserve to exist. They were a disgrace of nature. Sherlock almost destroyed them...but then realized that the broomstick was downstairs in a cupboard under the sink. The remainder of limited thinking space in the room agreed to stay put and wait till it rained. It was better that way, for everyone. So Sherlock lounged in his seat, forcing his eyes back to the book in his hands. Despite his tremendous effort to look away,he could still make out the tiny black daddy long legs crawling happily in its corner. It was so...** annoying**.

Sherlock wanted to slap it. He blamed his legs for not moving to get the broom. Releasing a breath of frustration, he shut his book dramatically and lifted his long limbs ( quite similar to the ones on the spider) and made a move to stand up. Unbeknownst to him, was the coffee table that was inconveniently placed before him.

Seconds later, Sherlock lay tangled on the floor, amidst books dust coffee and his own legs. The spider gave a triumph smile. Sherlock could almost hear it chuckling in the corner. _Dear God, that creature will be the death of me!_ In his ears, Sherlock heard the mindless laughter of the lone spider, hidden in the darkness. It grew louder and louder and_** louder**_**.**

Spiders were the least of Sherlock's concern in school. In fact, Sherlock was never a one for friends but then again, Mycroft was worse. And that fact itself brought down Sherlock's name before he even joined school. Although, it didn't really bother him that, what people thought. What mattered was what_ he_ thought. And whether it was right and logical. What mattered was what _he_ spoke. That every single sentence he said however seldom to the people around him, was correctly pronounced, projected and _perfect. _That every single word he uttered, meant thousands more than it was heard to mean. And that no matter how many lies will never conceal the truth. For only a master liar can master the truth of other liars. And in world of humans, he was a master in his domain.

The deep laughter of the metaphorical spider in the corner of his wall never did die down. Even when there were no walls for it to occupy...

But Sherlock Holmes ignored it. For now.


	2. Attention

Attention - a web in the making

'He sits motionless, like a spider in the centre of its web, but that web has a thousand radiations, and he knows well every quiver of each of them.'

Potato. Potahtoh. Tomato. Tomahtoh. Dublin. London. Dublin. London.

Was the perception of the boy's move to England. And just like any other attention seeking boy, he was part of an ever growing family of five ( well not really since mama died) which was quite unfortunate since papa had always been the stupid one. They inherited almost everything from him. His hair, his mouth, his jaw, his shoulders, everything. Besides, they were already four of them. Imagine how tired people would get of the same face. Imagine the amount of pity the youngest would have got. Oh, that's right, they would have forgotten he existed by then, since their idiot of a father was given the privilege to christen them when they were born. The arrogant beast. James was his name so James would be what their children would be called.

Thank the Lord they had their mother's intelligence. Well, not all of them. James number 4 was always the worst of the batch. Poor chap. He was a carbon copy their father. Other than that, the rest of the James' were more intelligent than a Greek genius. Oh and then there was James number 2... Who sort of died during their trip to the reichenbach where he caught pneumonia. James number 3 promised to revisit that place someday. He wanted to die there too.

Minus the minor mishaps along the way, that left James 1 and James 3 alive and well ( define it however you will) because the sad case, James 4 must have died along the way. It was all a blur, really. After all, their minds were like hard drives, storing only the most important things.

James 1 and James 3 proceeded to further their education by advising their father to send them to school, which he obliged whole heartedly. James 1 advised his younger brother to bear with the old man until he dies for them inherit his land and fortune. James 3 wonders how long that would take and not more than 20 years later, will he wonder how to speed up the process.

Just to make the differences clear between James 1 and James 3 is the most obvious one. James 3 preferred to be called 'Jim' because he hated Treasure Island. It was what one might a call, a bittersweet relationship.

He was so convinced that it was his real name, that it stuck forever.

"Jim Moriarty." said he as he wondered why he bothered to raise his hand for attendance.

"Moriarty? what kind of name is that?" said a stupid British boy with whom he was doomed to spend the whole semester next to. Jim rolled his eyes. If that boy wasn't so big he would have backhanded him right of his chair. Like swatting a fly. Or eating it.

"I'm Irish, idiot."

It was then, The boy began to move vigorously on the spot. His hands covering his mouth. Tears in his eyes. A fit of noises erupted from within his mouth. At first muffled, then full out guffawing. Jim was sincerely confused. What the heck was he doing. Then, using the practical words in his mental dictionary, it dawned to him. He was laughing at me.

"Moriarty, the Leprachaun! Lookin' for ya pot eufh gould? i think i can healp you," said the defect of evolution, pointing to his oversized buttocks. Jim almost covered his eyes. The big boy's voice rumbled louder, if possible, "How do you like that, little MorMor?!"he teased between chortles, with the worst attempted irish accent. Ever.

Naturally, The rest of the class around them joined along, like the hypocrites they were. Jim was wrestling between the anger and the utter foolishness of the creature before him. He decided to use both to his advantage.

A loud smack sounded across the room. The sound of the big British boy falling to floor put a grin on Jim's face. However, it did the complete opposite to the teacher who was ( probably as stupid as Jim's father was) finally back to Earth to realize what had happened.

And while Jim stood triumphantly above his victim, the teacher rose from his seat.

"I'm a pirate," said Jim as he trampled over the larger boy's form, at the same time catching a glimpse of a particular pair of eyes upon him, but before he could react, It was then, he felt a large pair of hard hands lock around his scrawny arms - gripping them painfully tight enough to leave a scar. Which he would be proud of.

He imagined how dramatic this all probably looked. The authorities, so boring and ordinary, desperately trying to contain the genius before them. He loved it. He loved how everyone was just staring right into his eyes. His mother's eyes. He almost let out a glorious sigh. He almost slumped into his captor's arms, as if he had wanted to be there his entire life. Almost. Although, really He just loved the attention.

Little did he know, that 20 years later, it would have been like dejavu. In a courthouse, in front of a jury he had bribed and threatened, in front of the oblivious judge, in front of an audience, in front of Sherlock, his final prey. He was ringmaster in his own circus. He was the star. He was a spider.

And when the cameras blinded his eyes, he put on his best smile.


	3. Guilt

Guilt - an undiscovered emotion

"I worry about him. Constantly."

Mama pretended not to notice Mycroft's absence for yet another Christmas dinner. She pretended that he had forgotten. At this point, Sherlock realized that despite all of those times this woman had been pretty useless to him, she was in fact right. And despite the fact he hated Christmas dinners, he needed another being to finish the turkey. It was terrible.

Sherlock stopped rooting for Mycroft ever since he betrayed him by joining the government. It was all pretty dramatic but as far as Sherlock was concerned, Mycroft was a blood traitor. The government didn't deserve people like them. They were too different and the government, well they were too ordinary.

So judging that he couldn't fight this family war alone, he recruited Mama who was pretending to be indifferent about it. Papa had left a long time ago to be put into consideration. To be honest, Mama was a perfect candidate. And during their 'time' together, he realized that both of them, weren't so different after all.

Mycroft on the other hand, had always been the speaker. He was outright and confident and had this attractive charm that radiated around him whenever spoke. Sherlock was the passive genius, the arrogant boy with the messy black curls. While Mycroft stood tall, Sherlock learnt to slouch. He couldn't have cared less if his brother was the king of England. But he was certainly not living in his brother's shadow. He was certainly never going to let people think he was afraid of stepping into the shoes of the almighty 'Mycroft'.

Mycroft was always aware of Sherlock's quiet jealousy. He knew him too well, after all they were the same. At first, he reveled in his brother's envy towards him as he always felt ( no matter how insanely childish it sounded) as if Sherlock had stolen his spotlight. One would not be surprised if Sherlock felt the same way judging by how their egos were bigger than themselves.

However, as Mycroft matured ( a word that he felt Sherlock will never become),he realized that their once childish squabble, had itself matured into a bitter sibling rivalry. They were adults now for gods sake! Although Mycroft still regarded Sherlock the same judging by the spider like form he maintained since he was born.

Thinking so much about Sherlock was unhealthy. Now, he couldn't even remember when the last time he had thought about himself. Wow, talk about selflessness, it was so un- Mycroft. It was so un- Holmes.

Then again, nothing was Holmes since...

Mycroft had collected all of them. The newspaper cuttings. He had them in a box - reminding him of the events leading up to the great fall. He had convinced himself that it was for the records of the government, but then again, he could have asked Anthea to do that for him. However, what happened at the fall was something he did not wish to remember. He burned that article.

He remembered watching the orange flames consume the wrinkled paper. He heard the crackling sound of the disintegrating product. His mind was a hard drive, it deleted everything that was unnecessary.

He remembered the sound of light pattering on the roof, on the giant glass window he had his back to. He remembered the dim afterglow of the ashes in the fireplace, in which he had destroyed the most painful evidence. He remembered the silence that was always there but it was only then did he realize it.

It was known that Mycroft Holmes didn't have a heart, he wasn't born with one. But as he looked at the rain pouring from the skies outside, he realized that it belonged to Sherlock.


	4. Annoyance

Annoyance - a turn for the better.

_"I will burn the heart out of you." - Jim Moriarty, The Great Game _

It was probably the smile. That infuriating crooked smirk. Or maybe it was the way he walked, like he owned the very ground he was tramping on. Or perhaps it was the fact that he had managed to break into the Bank of England, disarm the national prison and attempt and actually wear the crown jewels while successfully framing an innocent man in the process. Simultaneously. All in a blasted click of his pretty little phone.

James Moriarty decided that that was on the bottom on the list of things about his little brother that annoyed him the most. What particularly annoyed him, was how he always got away with. Always. And not to mention his psychotic obsession with that Holmes detective. Sherlock.

James Moriarty also decided that he liked Mycroft more out of the Holmes brothers. Not because of the cliche excuse, that Mycroft was obviously older, more sensible and perhaps has a larger part of him clinging on to the ledge of sanity, but mainly because, he was the ticket to his brother's eventual death. Well both their brothers... But as long as the slate was finally clean.

Because unlike Mycroft who was unknowingly drifting towards the foul shores of what humans call _emotion_ after his brother's death, James couldn't have been more far off. He had watched, his eyes dancing and a familiar smile on his lips. He watched Mycroft look out of his window. James did the same and they stared at each other, through the rain and the miles of distance between them. He watched the reflection of glowing embers in his eyes and laughed. The old boy was breaking. His dark facade was shattering while James' was just building higher.

There was one thing James had learnt from Jim.

The art of burning.


	5. Memory

"I have no friends. Except for one." - Sherlock Holmes to John Watson, The Hounds of Baskerville.

**Memory - an interlude by John Hamish Watson**

Perhaps no one will ever know the true meaning of friendship until one has experienced it.

I had a friend. He was the perfect example of a high functioning sociopath. A perfect package of Asperger's syndrome, sarcasm, and enough ignorance to match his remarkable knowledge. However he may have seemed to be on the outside, I discovered a part of Sherlock Holmes that made him the greatest man I've ever known.

He spoke very little about where he came from, and yet he knew everything about me just by a glance. He acted as if he never cared about what people thought about him. He didn't.

He did, however, _care_.

Perhaps no one will ever know the truth behind this mystery of a man. I still don't. But from what I've learnt during my time with him, I discovered that he was both a truth and a lie. Both real and unreal. I learnt he lied to protect the people he cared for. The people with whom his own truths belonged to.

It wasn't always the sleuthing or the deducing or the outrageous mannerisms. It wasn't the sarcasm, the constant roll of the eyes and the kind lies. Sherlock Holmes was more than the man I met after I returned from Afganistan. He was more than the genius, sociopath that could read you from a glance. It was all very amazing, very unbelievable. Sherlock holmes, the only the consulting detective in the world!

Perhaps no will ever believe that the things I miss the most from that impossible man were of the most little things.

In fact, quite ironically after the first few days with him as flat mates, it never occurred to me that I would be wanting to remember anything at all about that rude, insensitive man. He was deliberate and quiet yet was able to act around me as if he had known me his entire life. He spoke like someone beyond his years. He spoke like he had seen everything all at once and quickly shut his eyes because he didn't want to. When I spoke to him that day, despite how little we knew of each other, I knew that I would remember at least one thing, his old eyes.

And after he spoke,when I told him that it was late and that I didn't want to be late for my first day at work, he shrugged, turned in his chair and told me, "John, _take care_."

The next morning, in utter state of despair, he told me to sod off. The night before I was stood before his grave, he told me the same thing. So I told _him to take care._

In response, he wore a small smile and we both knew that for Sherlock Holmes, the upturned gesture of the lips always meant the opposite. However, it was also the sincerest. It was the only expression he did not _deliberately_ contrive to shield what he really was feeling for if one peered closer, one would see that it was his _eyes _that reflected the honesty of his sadness.

In other words, the face of Sherlock Holmes was unique. Often have I compared him with that of an animal. An animal of which I haven't quite put my finger on - probably a shark headed sloth or a meerkat with talons. Sherlock could never be just one. He was always a jumble of everything. There was, inside of him an inner struggle between Yin and Yang - sometimes he was both, sometimes he was one of each. Either way, I had seen him all.

The aura of something old being put into a new backdrop, Sherlock was a traditionalist with a flair for technology.

His profound habit of texting me when I was in the same room never ceased to annoy me. A proper verbal conversation never lasted for more than 5 minutes before Sherlock got bored and programmed his brain to reject the words I was sending to it. Therefore, it was only appropriate to text. In Sherlock's defense, it stopped his brain from overloading with the sound of my voice. In my defense, besides the fact, that my voice was fine, his hard rive of a mind could have just deleted it later. Texting Mrs Hudson who lived downstairs was a leap to the extreme ( on Mrs Hudson's part) who was, pleasantly surprised with the fact that she could add smiley emoticons in her messages. Her attempt of being 'friendly' only wavered Sherlock's level of self tolerance.

However, all traces of annoyance would magically disappear at the sight of the tea she brought up later on.

Picturing Sherlock Holmes carrying out a domestic lifestyle was nearly impossible. Hence, the reason why he always reminded me of my existence. In return, he agreed to partake in occasional card games as some form of recreation during the times he wasn't hunting for trouble. The once in a blue moon 'games' were Sherlock's version of compensation, therefore it was only right if he also took the liberty of using his victories against me whenever I was unhappy with his despicable behavior. There was, unfortunately, no compensation for those occasions.

Otherwise, he found constant amusement in _me_ to pass time. It was truly amazing how Sherlock's absence affected the household temperament. Sometimes he would be gone for hours, sometimes for mere minutes but by some force of nature, his vacancy triggered the devices in the flat to somehow disfunction themselves. It was a daunting task, trying to repair them by oneself for the sake of sanity above anything else; yet despite everything, I was constantly chided by the calm amused expression Holmes wore at the sight of my flustered red face.

"Only appliances, John," he would say once he returned. "_We could always get a new one._"

And I would simply bow my head in shame just like all the other times, technology had bested me in battle.

The television was stroke of luck.

"A complete waste of space!" Sherlock declared once we purchased it ( in a manner, I 'deduced' that was naturally used to increase my blood pressure)

"Well, so are the microscopes on the table top and the vials of who-knows-what in the pantry," I was forced to remind.

Despite the initial reluctance, the great detective declared movie nights a commendable effort by me save for action movies that were always on the bottom of the list, as Sherlock highly disapproved of my lack of intellect which resolved me into finding pleasure in mindless violence and witless dialogue.

I remember when Christmas was around the corner and the presents he wished for, from the morgue were always highly anticipated. However, Sherlock also proved he smiled more often at his friends seated around him rather than the presents seated below the tree.

I remember the dismembered body parts in the fridge, the human head in the microwave, the bloodstains on the carpet whose blood belonged to God knows who... presumably from Sherlock soaked in someone else's blood and lingering smell of chlorine in the kitchen. We could have had a museum of decapitated human anatomy.

The exhibits of course, were unpleasant sights for the guests we had over. Well, more accurately, the guests _I_ had over. Which was almost as seldom as Sherlock _allowing_ guests over. And then it occurred to me , that I was just as married to his work as he was.

"Women, eh, John," he would say in attempt to make me feel better afterwards, despite the fact he knew my wounds were still wide open. And his words of 'comfort' only served as soothing as salt water being poured on them.

"Can't live with them, can't -"

"Sherlock, don't do this again..."

"Oh, thank goodness."

The awkward silence after that would only reduce us to cough away our impending laughter. That of which we would forget, and subconsciously I would remind myself to remember just in case.

Sherlock Holmes was someone that was indeed hard to forget, especially when you have grown so close to him to remember his every eccentric habit. But it wasn't just the habits that I remember. Its everything about him and no matter how hard one tried to forget and no matter how brief one's first encounter with him was, the memory of his presence lives on in the corners of the unused mind. It could have been a glimpse in a crowd of people or a bump in the shoulder while rushing down the street. The unmistakeable stare and the signature presence of the deerstalker he refused to wear plants a memory that lives on forever.

I remember his sadness, his happiness, his frustration, his desire all projected through his beloved instrument, that of which he would tuck below chin and string out the most beautiful tunes. Tunes that spoke louder than his short dismissive responses ever could. They were beautiful moments. Those moments when his violin music would sound around the whole house. Those moments when he would play to the rain against the window - his eyes melancholy and his soul tired. And I will treasure those moments always - those moments when Sherlock Holmes' emotions were simply the music from his absent heart.

And for some reason, I feel he is there now. Somewhere in the darkness. Staring out a window, at all the people who loved him and thought him dead - the people who stood on that cold January morning, in the slight breeze of the silent graveyard.

He would smile softly, state something deliriously funny and brandish the bow of his violin. And slowly, he would play a long stroke to begin a new song. A song vaguely familiar to the one he played on the third night we were together as flat mates.

Something vivid and fresh and utterly Sherlock.

"Bach," Holmes had said simply as he played on that night.

No, but this was new, this was different. I know because I remember every tune he had ever played.

_This is for Watson,_ this one said_, For my dear friend, John Watson._

The friend, he knew who was going to miss him the most.


	6. Power

**Power - a confession by Carl**

When the swimming arena lights switched on, Mrs. Powers felt as if this day was what she had been waiting for her entire life, even before she had Carl. She was so proud of him - everything that he had gone through to get to where he is now. Champion swimmer.

Today was his big day.

_I honestly feel guilty for what I said to him earlier. Little MorMor. He looked pretty upset, I mean, he didn't look upset but you just know, you know, after sitting next to him for the past 6 months. His eyes become the scariest black. He is so weird. He's always alone during recess and he sits on the floor for Gods sake! What kind of sane person would sit on the cafeteria floor? He never listens or talks in class but he is a bloody genius. Highest in the form. That's right! The only time he opened his mouth ( not talk because he was speaking, randomly) was to mention the only person who beat him. And I was wondering whether it hurt, and he looked me in the eyes and said he beat me at everything. I realized he wasn't talking about semester tests or a possible fistfight. Because when he said everything, he sounded like the devil. His voice... It gave me gooseflesh. And after that, he never stopped talking about him. That Sherlock Holmes character._

_Drawing webs on his table, he would mutter, He's a spider just like me... He went on and on and God was he infatuated. Like a man possessed he would rant. I thought MorMor was O.K when his mouth was shut but recently, I hated him more than Sherlock Holmes. I had to stop him. And he threatened to kill me if I told Sherlock or anybody else. But I had to, you see. I was so scared. I had to make this tape. I had to tell myself at least, if not anyone else._

_Jim wished me luck before my big swim. It was terrifying the way he could change the subject so easily like the previous topic didn't even exist. I told him to bugger off._

_I see mom waving at me from the audience. She's beaming. I beam back. She didn't get to hug me before the big swim, maybe I'll do it later. After I win._

When the swimming arena lights switched off, Sherlock Holmes entered with his torchlight. There had to be a reason. Things cannot be without a reason. Think. Think.

His shoes, Carl shoes are missing. They aren't even in is locker. The bloody police are so blind sometimes. Correction: eternally blind.

He rummaged through what was left of the evidence that wasn't taken by the authorities yet. He summarized his findings. Mental note: Carl was eczematic. Medication : consumed. Eczema symptoms: severe judging by the presence of empty azathioprine containers. An immunosuppressant drug. Side effects...

Sherlock paused as he reexamined the empty bottles of Carl's medication.

Several hours earlier,

"Must be a big day for you today, huh?"

Carl noticed the shorter form beside him. He snorted and pretended not to listen. "Why, is it a big day for Sherly too?"

Jim smiled. "Yes, I think it is. You haven't seen him around have you?"

Carl's vein pulsed. "So guys can finally get married? Send my regards."

Jim's smile turned sour. "I want to kill him, Carl."

The first time Jim said the word 'Carl'.

The bigger boy turned so he finally faced little MorMor.

"I thought I was the first on your list," he said sarcastically.

Jim's eyebrow tilted upwards. His lips were smiling.

"Jealous, Powers? Or is that sarcasm? It must indeed be a big day for you today."

"I'm not afraid of you."

"We both know you are. And Carl?"

Carl was already walking away.

"Good luck. And stop talking to that blasted recorder. It's terribly unhealthy."

Carl didn't hear. He was too busy thinking about the next time he was going to hug his mother.

It was poisoned. His excema medication. Poisoned. Sherlock moved away from his microscope. Today was Carl's big day and he didn't even know it.

Today was the day he died.


	7. Paranoia

**Paranoia - in which umbrellas are upturned early.**

Sunday shopping was always a nuisance especially when it was Sunday and one was supposed to be at home feeding the cat. The woman sighed as she found herself packing her purse and carrying her shopping bag. It was also raining so she brought her umbrella. She sighed again when she realized her cat, Toby was missing. So was her husband, she thought sourly. At least Toby took the liberty of coming back once he had gone somewhere. Alive.

She sighed again as she took out her keys and locked the front door. She sighed when she walked to the store, she sighed when she walked back. She sighed when she waited at the zebra crossing for the traffic light and finally thought, _you know what, Toby won't be back till lunch, I'll have some biscuits in the park until then._ So she took a right instead of her usual left and wondered whether Toby would ever be back at all.

At the park, she found a bench where she sat and ate her biscuits on. Her umbrella kept herself and the groceries dry. It failed however to keep her eyes dry from tears. Perhaps it was because she didn't want the groceries next to her. Because groceries couldn't feel or talk. Taking a deep breath to clear her mind, she crumpled her biscuit wrapper and grabbed the umbrella. Dusting her skirt, she stood, only to be rudely shoved back into her seat by a tall figure in a hurry. It was raining heavily now. The skies thundered unusually.

"Oi!" she cried, her voice almost matching the sound of the thundering clouds.

The man slowed his run and turned to face her. "What?!" he shouted back. He voice barely heard over the now pouring rain.

"You just shoved an old lady in the rain. Is that all you can say to me, young man?"

The figure made no move of hesitation as he approached her. He was bundled in a thick coat and scarf, his gloved hands protecting his head from the rain.

"You must be Mrs. Hudson, pleasure to meet you." he said, with one of his soggy hands stretched out. Mrs. Hudson merely stared at it and narrowed her wrinkled eyes at him. "How do you know my name?"

The man wasn't looking at Mrs. Hudson, but at the groceries on the bench.

"Do you mind I pay for lunch?" he suggested.

Mrs. Hudson once again found herself doing things her mind simply didn't allow her too. "I'm sure I don't mind," she said as she watched the groceries on the bench, soaking the rain. Next to her, was someone who could talk and understand. The towering man volunteered to hold the umbrella since Mrs. Hudson simply couldn't reach over his head. He walked her home and Mrs. Hudson found herself enjoying this bright young man's company.

"Why, are you in need of a place to stay? I'm sure there was a reason for you bumping into me like that. You could have just asked you know."

The man's lips curled into a smile as they reached her front door.

"It seems I've been caught and rather homeless. I am not one for first impressions."

Mrs. Hudson struggled with the lock, her small form budged the door hard. It flew open. "Well, you have certainly made an unforgettable one on me. I do, fortunately, have a room on the second floor if you like. Fully furnished. Reasonable rent."

She ushered him to the hallway and shut the door to prevent the rain from wetting the carpet. The room was suddenly consumed in darkness.

"You know, you seem vaguely familiar...is this your first time in London?"

"You might have seen me." the darkness replied shortly. "Like I said, I am looking for a flat to rent. It is my main priority at the moment so could we get this done and over?"

Mrs. Hudson had the urge to smack the man's face. If only he wasn't so tall and invisible in the darkness. " Very well, then." she allowed finally. " But don't dare try that tone on me young man. I'm your land lady, not your housekeeper."

Entering her own flat she got out a small logbook in which she wrote her tenants details. A set of keys jingled in her hands.

"And your name? You know, for the records... And the rent."

The coat of the tall figure bristled, then, stooping to the level of the middle- aged said quietly.

"Sherlock Holmes."

The woman peered through her glasses, and smiled warmly at the stoic face hidden beneath the bush of black curls. She passed him the pen, he scowled. A part of her already liking his childish nonchalance. She could get used to this.

"Right, Mr. Holmes. Would you like some tea?"

"No thank you."

"You still owe me a takeover and mind you, the rent has nothing to do with it."

Sherlock grumbled, trudging up the staircase, not bothering to keep up his good young man facade.

Mrs. Hudson came up several minutes later with a cuppa.

"You don't happen to be a detective, do you?" she asked suddenly.

Sherlock stopped stirring his tea (an action he had been doing for the past 15 minutes, in order not to taste it.) "A good deduction, Mrs. Hudson. If I was, what need be sleuthing?"

It was Mrs. Hudson's turn to put down her tea because really, she didn't want to drink it either. She cleared her throat," It's my husband, Mr. Holmes. He's on trial in California."

"I'm not a lawyer, Mrs. Hudson. Besides, I'm sure you could get him off the hook with the local authorities. After all, it doesn't take much. Americans are really as stupid as they look," he dismissed.

After staring distastefully at his cup, Sherlock downed his tea in a gulp albeit reluctantly for courtesy and stood from his seat. "Right, if that's all, I'll go get the takeaway."

Mrs. Hudson didn't move to go.

"You see, it is rather complicated, but Sherlock, he's on trial to be released. "

Sherlock's ears perked. "And you don't want him to be?"

Mrs. Hudson gathered the tray and cups. "Of course not, by God, how long have I wanted to see that man in a rope."

Sherlock almost laughed. Almost. It was enticing and perhaps a tad bit boring… But Sherlock supposed it would do, for now.

"Very well. I will assist you. Free of charge."

Mrs. Hudson walked around him.

"That is very nice of you dear, but are you terribly sure you wouldn't want anything in return?"

Sherlock was already at the bottom of the stairs, fastened his coat and scarf. The rain had just stopped.

"Actually, I think my room needs a bit if dusting. The spiders are intolerable."

"Treat them as pets dear, I always have... Speaking of which..." Mrs. Hudson looked around her ankles.

The front door slammed behind Sherlock and Mrs. Hudson was once again in utter solitude. She sighed, which she found she was doing a lot of when she was alone.

Sitting on her sofa, she reached for the newspaper. A soft rub in her ankles made her jump. "Toby! You silly cat! I thought you died."

Toby rolled his eyes, on the inside of course, in fear of upsetting her. He settled on her lap. His dirty coffee coat smoothed by her old hands. He purred graciously, feeling no guilt of his previous attempt to escape. He presumed this was why he kept coming back. Another purr elicited. Mrs. Hudson cooed in delight.


	8. Fear

**A/N: Hello! Just to clear things up, this in fact an excerpt from another story of mine 'The Boy Who Was Afraid Of The Dark' (which I have deleted due to this current change in circumstances) that conveniently interlaces with this story. So if you've already read that before, you could simply skip this chapter. If you haven't then enjoy!**

**Thank you and sorry for any ****inconvenience caused - themanonthemoon. **

* * *

**Fear - an absence of illumination ; Darkness**

You … you told me once … that you weren't a _hero_. Umm… There were times when I didn't even think you were _human_, but let me tell you this. You were the best man, the most human ... _human_ being that I've ever known and no one will ever convince me that you told me a lie, and so ... there. I was so alone ... and I owe you so much. But please, there's just one more thing, one more thing, one more _miracle_, Sherlock, for me, don't be ... _dead._ Would you do that just for me? Just stop it. Stop _this…_

And with that, Doctor John Watson gave one last look at the grave in front of him. His sweaty hands fidgeting uncontrollable. His bottom lip quivering and the droplets of water at the corners of his eyes finally gave way - streaming down his pale, grief stricken face.

* * *

**Moments after the great Fall. When Sherlock Holmes disappeared off the face of the planet and the minds of the people around him.**

There was a thud. A great head shattering thud. The unconscious man screamed in pain as he felt the burning pain at the base of his skull. But he could do nothing to stop it - his limbs were immobile, slacking uselessly at his sides. He thrashed and yelled in sheer agony but only silence greeted his cries for help.

Then, all of sudden, he saw darkness. The eyes that he didn't realize were open until they were closed, sealed shut. His breath hitched. His chest heaved after every tiring pant. Darkness, everywhere. And this time, he didn't hold back the sobs that were held back in his dry throat.

His past had been glum and grey and monotonous and sad. Grey being the key word. It was so **bleak**, that every time he pictured himself as a little boy, an image of an ill treated child came into view. Covered from head to toe in a layer of grey somethings. In fact, the atmosphere was always painted in grey almost as if all the colours in the world had been drained out of it.

Like a depressing silent picture show from a world of black and white. And sometimes it pained him. So when his mind wandered too deep into the murky waters of his dreary past, he would reel it back in, like a scared fisherman afraid to face his own prey.

But no matter how many times he tried, he always slipped and drowned. His fathers words echoing in his head like a whip striking blow after blow against his tortured back.

_When do you talk... the man's voice boomed._ _I talk when I'm told. The little boy's voice wavered._

_When do you go..._ _I go when I'm old._

Everyday. Over and over again like a haunting reminder.

_And when I sing a sad song..._ _I must always sing along._

Said the adolescent, his face plastered in a permanent scowl. A child who had to grow up too fast.

_And when I frown..._ _I know you are down._

_And when I grin_ _I know you are grim._

The young man replied as if he were reciting the alphabet. His dark, sunken eyes, fixed on a particular spot. 10 years have driven a hole in his adult mind. 10 years of madness and sadness. 10 years of being afraid. Afraid of himself, afraid of his father, afraid of solitude... But the one thing that remained in his head until the day his life flashed before him was the darkness.

For when one was afraid of the dark, the subconscious would gradually conjure up the impossible. And in time, his blasted, _ordinary_ father's voice was slowly replaced to one that was so haunting that it never failed to make his bones shake violently.

_For when I show my teeth_ _I know who you want to eat._

It was that day that the darkness consumed him. And the monster that was lurking in the shadows of his home at night was himself.

_When do you see the monsters?_ _Not under my bed_ _When do you see the monsters...?_

Their all...

"... IN MY HEAD!" Jim Moriarty screamed as his eyes shot open. He got to his feet, breathing hard. _No, NO._ The criminal mastermind calmed himself. You can never_ think_ when you're consumed with too much emotion. Too much emotion is _bad, _was one of the more sane things he had learnt during his lifetime.

His feet wobbled slightly, but he was too busy breathing in the musty smell of his surroundings.

First breath -_ slow, shallow, blood loss, pounding, massive concussion._

Second breath -_ internal hemorrhage, possible,... but less likely, impact was muffled._

He closed his eyes and opened them slowly. Vision intact - if not a slight tear on the outermost conjunctiva.

Swallow. Taste- _gunpowder._ Shrug. Understandable.

Third breath - _lungs, dry - prone to longterm effects._ Sigh.

Wait. Hearing. Pause._ Hearing._

The seconds ticked but he couldn't hear them. Then he realized, he couldn't actually hear himself. He bit his lip and concentrated.

Ear drums - _damaged_. _Blast. Literally._

He cleared his hoarse throat and let out a dry mirthless chuckle. _Oh, how strange the way the odds work._

Because if he remembered correctly, he had just died. But there was one thing that differentiated him from his beloved Sherlock. It was that he was the darkness. He lived in it long enough to know how it worked, inside out. His pale hand touched the bulge of his pocket.

_A gun_.

He looked at it for a while and began to laugh - a mirthless one that mingled with spasms of coughs. It had been _sooooo_ convincing... So much so that he, for one split second, as it happened, almost surprised himself. The thought made his eyes wander to the blood stains on his favorite suit - soaked in his sweat, his own blood and that of others.

"A shame, really," he pouted. "But of course, a trip to the laundry will fix that." Nothing else. And as he examined his surroundings, he noticed that he was in a chamber. He moved his unused legs and realized that it hurt to walk. He growled in frustration. _Control_, however, was something he had found hard to learn, which of course, made his initial reaction to the movement of the door creaking open was to shoot the first person who entered. And shoot, he did.

The body slouched and dropped onto the wooden floorboards. The second man entered and Jim's dark eyes widened in relief.

"Boss." Sebastian Moran acknowledged briefly as he stood his ground, completely unarmed.

Moriarty smiled - his smug, sadistic crooked smile._ My favorite sniper. Alive and well. How tragic..._

In one swift movement, Moriarty's fist connected with his employee's jaw. An agonizing crack sent the sniper caught off guard. He let out a cry of pain as he cradled his jaw. A droplet of crimson blood oozed out from the corner of his lip.

"You idiot!" Jim raged. His face was a stark comparison to the serene expression he wore earlier.

"But sir-" Moran found it hard to speak with his dislocated jaw.

"NO,No,no! Moran," he chuckled hoarsely, leaning against a nearby wall for support."My dear, most pitiful, Moran.." His eyes turned an unpleasant color of charcoal black. "Why the hell didn't you blast his psychotic head off...!" Clearly implying the fact that Sherlock Holmes had managed to escape from death by a hair's breadth.

'Because you blasted yours,' Moran wanted to say glumly.

Just then, Moriarty's rant came to end. He closed his eyes and exhaled slowly as if reading Moran's very thoughts. He pronounced his words excruciatingly slowly, accentuating his syllables as if he was talking to a two-year old.

"It had to be done."

'He's talking to himself tense,' Moran noted silently. 'That was Jim for you, always one step ahead. Always...'

And just as the consulting criminal's right hand man was about to form his next sane word, he watched his boss touch his pocket - a calculating smile formed on his chapped lips.

Sebastian Moran died before he could only begin to comprehend.

Moriarty simply rolled his eyes as he tucked away his precious weapon. His face, the image of a child engulfed in utter boredom.

"Devils are so hard to come by," the Irishman's voice echoed a high pitched sing song tune as he stomped out of the room, absentmindedly flipping the coin, he had conveniently found his pocket. How ironic.

"Maybe you're right? I was afraid. I was afraid because for once in my life, I didn't think it through. It doesn't matter anymore. I knew you would understand. You're Sherlock Holmes. You're _me._ It wasn't easy dying. I'll tell you that. A great deal of sacrifices had to made but no matter. Because in those little moments before chaos erupted, I noticed a silent beat within you - a steady rhythm. _Catchy, I must say. _At first it was foreign to me, then it dawned. Maybe there is something different about us, Holmes, that your chest isn't so hollow after all. How couldn't I have realized it sooner? Weak. _Ordinary._

So in order to restore what was once, and how it always will be. I will burn it, Sherlock Holmes. I will_ burn_ the _heart_ out of you."

* * *

In the corner of an unknown street, stood a man. If he had remembered correctly, he had just fallen off the fourth floor of a morgue, fractured his ribs, right arm, both of his legs and not to mention the fact that there was a crack in his skull and that there was already a funeral prepared for him the moment he landed. But he knew one thing that differentiated him from Jim Moriarty. It was the darkness. He had a fair amount of it and a fair amount not of it. He mastered it.

Because less than an hour ago, he was inches away from him - staring into his other half's black eyes, seeing past his harsh facade.

_Every fairy tale needs a good old fashioned villain. You need me or you're nothing — because we're just alike, you and I. Except you're boring. You're on the side of the "angels."_

Sherlock smirked at his nemesis's words. Little did Jim know, that he used to be too.

When he was a child, he wanted to erase all the black in the world. And now, when he thought about it, he was the only black spot left to erase.

So he grabbed his eraser and erased without a second thought in his dark mind. And his life drifted away like a little eraser dust - just another one of the same in this big bad world.

And when Sherlock Holmes stared down at the remains of his arch enemy. A silent thought nagged him in the corner of his mind but he shook it off.

He was always the dark. I was never the light. He was always afraid. Yet, I was never too brave.

Maybe we are the same, in a sick twisted way. It is true that your words had awakened me.

_Penny in the air, penny drops . But which side will win if both are the same?_

But alas, as the coin landed we both knew ... in these little moments,when breath was still abundant within you, that the dark contempt that was the fine line that separated the halves that both of us lie upon, stirred more than usual. There was a flicker in your eyes. Silent and unnoticed to the human eye. But as we both knew, we were not human. You wanted me to see it. It was sad. But no one pays sympathy to the darkness as it was the darkness who killed the light.

There was never another way. No other possible factor could deny that. Because the light never kills, it merely outshines. And yet, when you were there, inches away from me, the only being that made me feel like I was looking into my own dark eyes, you abruptly took it away. You killed your own darkness and left merely a dead shadow in its tracks.

My mind was shellshocked. But it took seconds to recover and realize that to you were just to consumed with the anger and greed and pride. That your life meant nothing compared to me. And even for that, I do not feel flattered.

So Sherlock walked out of his sanctuary and prepared himself to blend with the hustle and bustle of the passing crowd, but before he had the chance to put another foot in front of him, a sharp sound alerted his ears. A sound so soft and precise that it took even a high functioning sociopath like him a few milliseconds to register it. He turned slowly and saw it. Spinning like a perfectly released top.

A coin. A brand new penny perfectly worn due to excessive rubbing by obsessive compulsive fingers. It spun on the cobblestone road. Sherlock didn't walk to it, he simply stared, mesmerized by its constant, almost unimaginable uniform spinning - completely unaffected by the uneven and non conducive environment around it - breaking every single law set in physics.

Then something struck him, like the impact his violin strings receive when he plucks one of them- a clear sound that lingers and resounds even when its already reached complete silence. Because when the streetlights were finally lit, a name was found scrawled on the hard black wall in from of him.

_PENNY IN THE AIR..._

This time he walked towards it, tracing his sensitive finger pads against the harsh strokes - memorizing the cursive indentations. He took a deep breath and closed his eyes for a moment - for once, not believing his own two, careful eyes.

The sharp sound that had cut his ears abruptly stopped - waking his eyes from their momentary slumber.

PENNY DROPS.

HELLO, SHERLOCK.

Reality suddenly hit him in the face. The contrast of the scraped wall and the blackness that surrounded it made the detective take a step back. He could almost hear the Irish voice pounding in his eardrums.

_Moriarty, Moriarty..._

_It seems to be the only word left in your vocabulary nowadays. I for one, am touched. But please, do call me Jim._

"Hello, Jim," he said as he touched the worn surface of the coin - that of which both sides were erased off completely, leaving only a blur where the heads and the tails used to be.

And as much as he hated to admit it, Sherlock failed to suppress the involuntary shiver that ran down his spine. Oh, how he had been mistaken. So very, very _wrong_. This was a game. It was always a game. A game that lived even after the reaches of death. For all along, he had thought it was the other way around and yet the tables have turned again and Sherlock Holmes felt like a little lost boy that was left in the dark. Completely oblivious and unknowing to the world around him. And he hated it.

No, No.

He was afraid of it.


	9. Surprise

**Surprise- in which spiders resurface**

_"Falling is just like flying - except there is a more permanent destination" - Jim Moriarty, The Reichenbach Fall_

* * *

He was late. Very late. The man tapped his foot impatiently. He drummed his fingers on his knee, chords to his favourite piece; Bach.

His black marbles of eyes shifted from left to right. Purposely late. But then again, he wasnt in a hurry. His eyes wandered to no where in particular, a familiar tune whistled out from his puckered lips. Well, now this was boring. very boring. But that's life isn't it? Ordinary and boring. He wondered how the barista coped with all her debts. He wondered how the old man behind him settled that issue with his wife. He also was curious as to why the rest of the people in this very shop managed to live over such trivial things. He rolled his eyes and closed them slowly, letting out an irritable groan. He stopped whistling when he suddenly remembered the tune.

_But it's alright it's okay,_

_You may live to see. Another day,_

_...Feel the city breaking and everybody's shaking_

_Stayin alive, staying alive,_

_Ah, ah, ah, ah_

_Oh for the sake of the sanity I've lost, end me now! _The thought swirled in his mind enticing him to give it try. _I already have,_ he reminded the persistent voice. _That didn't work_, he countered sourly, the events of yesterday played back in his mind. But it was convincing, he gave himself that. A promise was a promise... He thought for a while longer, or was it? He let the question hang in his brain, meanwhile reminding himself of his current disposition.

It so happens that I'm still alive and breathing and... boring.

He was prepared to let out a long sigh before he caught a glimpse of a familiar mop of dark hair bobbing past the huge glass windows. Jim didn't turn. He heard the bell at the door chime as a person walked through it, a person he had been waiting for oh so long!

Consciously, he smoothed his sleek black hair and straightened his...

Jim frowned dramatically.

_Uh! Blast it!_ This wasn't his suit. His beautiful Westwood, was left bloodstained and abandoned in the dark bowels of a foreign washing machine.

The scary thought made him look at the terribly simple clothing he was forced into. An ordinary white t shirt and an equally ordinary brown over coat and a pair of jeans that weren't even his size. It was all a bit of a culture shock for Jim. Especially the jeans - since when had he degraded himself to such pieces of fabric. He made a mental note to remind Sebastian to send his suit to a proper laundry. Jim then remembered that he had just killed Sebastian. _Oops._

"Busy being a good Samaritan?" a deep baritone said, his voice thick with sarcasm.

Jim looked up from his seat and smiled - genuinely.

"Why hello! How do the British say it? Fancy seeing you here? Fancy some tea?"

Forgive me for thinking you were dead. For thinking I was dead... Although," his wolfish grin disappeared. "It wasn't a pleasant surprise... I woke up cranky," said Jim who recalled shooting two men when he had awoken from the dead. One being Sebastian.

Sherlock skipped the formalities. From his pocket he withdrew a coin. Jim's eyes transfixed on the penny that twirled between Sherlock's fingers.

Sherlock noticed.

**_James won't be pleased._**

_Don't call me that._

**Forgive me for thinking you were a genius, Jim.**

_Forgiven. You can call me supreme genius from now on._

**I thought we were on the same side.**

_Forgive me for thinking otherwise._

**Not forgiven.**

There was a silence. Strange because they had never uttered a word. It was their eyes that spoke. Sherlock's as cold as ice and Jim's as black as the shadows that loomed over the lonely cafe.

After giving a quick sweeping glance around the cafe, Holmes turned his attention to Moriarty.

"Brother dear won't be pleased to find you here, breathing," Sherlock chided, in words this time.

Surprisingly, Jim's supply of witty comebacks dried in his throat. He managed nevertheless, unwilling to be the weaker one of the two. After all, they were the same. He didn't miss a beat.

"And what of yours? Hmm, Sherly?" he challenged, knowing it would hit a nerve.

His point was proven when the great Sherlock Holmes uncharacteristically stared to the ground.

"Mycroft wanted me dead," he spoke softly.

Jim clapped his hands sipped his drink.

"Exacto Mundo. Unfortunate, isn't it? The dwindling population of little brothers in the world."

"Yet here we are. "

"Indeed..." Jim agreed not really sure whether this was how he wanted to spend his afterlife - in an unknown cafe in the middle of London. In fact, after he died, he had expected the gates of the afterlife to open in his name. For him to skip right through them, a big grin on his face. Despite the fact, he had known all his life that the gates of heaven were never an option for him.

Moriarty yawned, finding a particular part of his fingernail interesting, he bit at it.

"Thanks to your big brother by the way," he said offhandedly " At least he took initiative. I mean, my fat sibling? He wouldn't have laid a finger on anything he did. Except for occasional shindigs."

Sherlock's eyebrow raised, "And you do?"

"I'm not fat!" Jim said defensively, already feeling uncomfortable without his suit. How come _Sherlock_ got to have one?

Sherlock rolled his eyes, discontinuing the immature argument. The coin in his hand, he slid over to Jim who sat opposite him. Jim did not move to touch it, he flinched away from it, more so.

"No more pennies. No more falls."

Despite everything, Jim smirked, unable to resist. "Finally out of change?"

Instead of a death glare Jim was expecting, Sherlock smirked along with a knowing look that Jim knew he used to make him look smart when he really wasn't.

"Finally out of lives." Holmes said as he made a move to go, untangling himself from the horrid web that he had gotten himself into.

Moriarty was not having any of it.

"We could have done it again, you know! All over again and make them believe. Those ordinary people."

Holmes had his back to the criminal. "Make them believe... Ha. they're not as stupid as you think."

Jim attempted to loosen Sherlock's vice grip on the judgement. "We think alike. I wasn't talking about them," he raised his eyebrows knowingly (because when Jim says he knows, he really knows). Sherlock pretended not to notice.

"Mycroft was willing to supply me with a lifetime of your weaknesses just for his own cause, for the government...he killed you, Holmes. He killed you first... I was just a toy. But then again, aren't we all?"

Something snapped inside Holmes before Jim could finish speaking. And for a split second, he thinks its his heart. Perhaps it was that word. The first word he said - Mycroft. Despite the spiders that screamed in his head to stop the unexpected horror,the emotion, that followed after his brothers name, it was not enough to consume the rage that flared within him. Sherlock turned swiftly. His long legs almost knocking over the table. "I KNOW WHAT HE DID!"

There was a silence after that (a silence that drew enough attention from the crowd around them).

Blue met pitch black. They froze just staring at each other, questions moving back and forth, all left unanswered. Jim's gaping mouth slowly twisted into a smile of awe. "So you do have it," he said, more to himself. "Thump...thump...thump thump thump thump! It's beating really fast now, are you angry Sherly?"

Sherlock said nothing. He simply sunk back into his seat dejectedly, raising a newspaper he had conveniently found to read, when really, it was to cover the bit of emotion that threatened to slip on his face. The paper smelt like ash. smoke and ash.

Jim relished at this. "Sherlock Holmes, I will burn the heart out of you."

"Repeating yourself is redundant and very unbecoming," snapped Sherlock from his sanctuary behind his newspaper.

Sherlock didn't dare meet Jim's eyes despite a part of him that was just aching to. He simply buried himself in the black and white pages he was holding. He struggled to focus on the fine print. His mind was chasing its own tail, around and around it went - so unsatisfied. Within him, boiled a strong desire to just know. He just did not have enough evidence. Evidence to solve himself - the greatest mystery.

Having lost in his thoughts, Sherlock found himself reading the same sentence over and over again. He sighed.

_Delete them. Delete all that is unnecessary._

ALL FALLS FOR FAMOUS FRAUD

Sherlock's eyes caught fragments of the text. He didn't need to read it to know. He almost disgusted himself by laughing at the pun. All falls. Sherlock then tried to remember how he felt when he had reached the ground. He just couldn't. It was deleted. Yet it stung whenever he tried to remember. Sherlock lowered the paper onto his lap, only to find Jim wearing a frown on his face.

"I should have wore navy during the trial. I didn't think they were going to use that photo for the obituary." Jim paused. "Although olive was pleasant too."

Sherlock's picture was ripped and stowed in the latter's pocket...Delete.

Sherlock had a funeral. In fact, He had attended it unbeknownst to the other mournful people there. Minus Jim of course, who did not have his own funeral, who probably never would shed a tear for the death of a loved one let alone the death of himself.

Sherlock thought of the people he left behind. The world and the few. The few of which included Mrs Hudson, Lestrade, Molly, Mycroft... John. He wondered what they were doing now. He wondered if they were crying or whether they were relieved. He wondered if they were waiting or if they were moving on. He wondered whether they even felt the way he expected them to feel. To feel sad, to feel empty. To at least forget for a while but always remember. Or would it all just be deleted. Like the smell of smoke and ash.

Sherlock rubbed his temples. His mind hurt. The same irritating pounding in his head. His eyes flicked toward the ceiling instinctively. It was clean and white. His eyes flicked towards Moriarty and couldn't help but wonder how many cobwebs it took to contain his mad mind.

The ex- consulting detective spoke to the ex-consulting criminal. Sherlock wondered if anything was ever going to be the same again.

"I can't stop but I want to,"Sherlock said, finally.

Moriarty looked at Holmes. He could see the smoke in his eyes. The smoke that made them red and wet. The smoke from the article. The smoke from the fall. Jim smelt it too. Faintly. The only living person he left behind was James and he wasn't much to talk about. It would have been over, this game. Because quite honestly Jim wanted it to be over too, despite the fact that he initiated it. He wanted it to be spectacular, to be awesome, to be the most epic finale ever! Two genius plummeting to their deaths. Literally.

"Wonder who that coin belonged to Holmes?"

"James." Sherlock said finally. It took him a minute to respond.

It was like a kick in the face, ice water on drowsy eyelids.

"Question 1: Correct. Next question, just to clear things up... Why is it in our possession?"

Sherlock stared at the metal piece in Jim's hands. His slight fingers moving deftly around the surface as if he was afraid it might burn him. Burn. Burn.

"Question number 3, in order to ponder on Question 2, Why are we even asking ourselves these questions?"

Sherlock had his hands clasped before him. His eyes closed. Jim attempted to look composed ( he tried to stifle a yawn).

"I'm being patient, Sherlock. Patience is boring. You are getting boring," Jim drawled.

Sherlock wasn't hearing Jim anymore, he was listening to the cogs that were spinning in his mind.

James, Mycroft, Jim. All them with the intention of ending him.

James: with the intention to end his little brother by ending Sherlock by initiating the Game by giving the coin.

Mycroft: with the intention to protect the government by interrogating Jim for the key code by giving away weaknesses thus ending Sherlock unintentionally

Jim: with the intention to end Sherlock and himself simultaneously in an epic finale to their Game by using the coin as conspiracy ( because he was good at that sort of thing - the theatrics)

Jim was the weapon to end Sherlock. And that 'end' never came. Why? Because someone changed their mind. Not Jim. Not Mycroft. Not James.

"His name is Porlock," Jim confessed finally, heaving a sigh afterward as if it was the biggest secret in the world.

"Porlock?" repeated Sherlock despite his belief that repeating mocked, no, _resembled_ stupidity. Yet how could one word be the answer to everything ? Was this what all this was leading to? "What does _Porlock_ want with me that he would so kindly save me from certain death?"

Moriarty didn't miss a beat.

"You see, Porlock is an important man. He really is. In fact, he is the second only consulting detective in the world."

"And how would you be of his acquaintance? Let me guess, another game of cat and mouse?"

"You could say that," Jim drawled," it was a past life. Nothing more. In fact, it ended something like this - quite unfinished."

"What does he want with me?"

Sherlock was falling again. Jim's grin widened.

"He wants a favor. You owe him a favor. He wants an answer. He requires a solution and offers to be your benefactor."

"Oh? And what are you in this web, an agent, a toy? What are you Jim?"

Moriarty stared as Holmes drew closer to him. His sunken eyes almost hidden in the dark contours of his face.

"What am I?" Moriarty considered. Sherlock clenched his jaw, is eyes never leaving the devil in disguise. Jim didn't surrender. "Are you frightened of me?" he asked quietly. "Are you frightened that I know so much about you and you so little of me? Have you finally realized what we truly are?"

Sherlock simply read the psychopaths eyes trying to deduce the black, nothingness that dwelled within.

"Its me." Jim admitted. " My name is Richard Brook. I am an actor. It's what I do for a living. Porlock is my client, I simply lure, seduce. You were a tough bargain but it was worth it. Oh yes it was difficult but I enjoyed the challenge. In fact, I fell so deep, I think I'm in-"

Sherlock growled in frustration.

"You are mad," he said simply, unable to bear anymore of his counterparts presence (nonsense).

Moriarty cackled, "It's a mad world!"

A little voice in Sherlock's mind pondered to check the contents of Jim's tea just in case it was drugged. But then again, Jim was always like this, like drugged tea.

Instead, Sherlock simply looked out of the window, as raindrops trailed down the glass, like translucent spidery fingers. Porlock, another player or a puppet master? This Game will be the death of him. He sighed.

"It is indeed, a mad world," he agreed somberly.

Sherlock knew to the answers to his own questions, he always did, but he just wanted Moriarty to say it. "then what makes of us?"

Jim eyes moved from the penny that used to be in Sherlock's hand to the scowl on Sherlock's face.

"We, oh Sherlock, we. We are spiders."

"And the rest of them?" Sherlock said, averting his eyes to their surroundings. It disturbed him that the madman knew more than he did. Already was Jim's obnoxious voice filling his restless brain but the fact that the obnoxious voice was right unsettled him to no end.

A wicked grin formed on Jim's lips. "They are the flies."

Sherlock looked away from Jim, once again finding an excuse to look at the window since the newspaper was out of reach.

He pressed his finger against the cold glass. His breath fogging it up slightly.

Jim leaned and drew a symbol on it. S, it said.

**So that's where we are. Drifting components in sample space.**

_Save me the lecture Sherly. I know my probabilities._

**Penny in the air... I'll give you credit, Moriarty. It all makes sense now.**

Jim felt like his body was set on fire. It was a wonderful sensation.

_Doesn't it always, Holmes? Everything has to make sense. Of all people, I thought you'd be the first to find out. Pathetic._

**Even the lies?** Thought Sherlock after a while.

_Once you've eliminated the impossible, whatever remains, however improbable must remain the truth._ Jim quoted Holmes. Sherlock scowled.

**Obsession is just a border over emotion. Be careful where you are stepping on, Jim...**

_I don't stalk you because I'm obsessed with you. I stalk you because I hate you._

**Hate is an emotion.**

_Hate is a negative emotion which means less than zero emotion. Got jumbled with your pluses and minuses? Isn't that just, elementary..._

Sherlock rolled his eyes. "There are many questions left unanswered yet we have left no stone unturned. What makes of those questions?"

"Questions like us..."

Sherlock leaned in his seat. His hands pressed together. His eyes closing slowly. It was a thoughtful silence.

"I guess we're just there. Neither dead nor alive, neither real or unreal. Neither a truth or a lie..."

Sherlock thought of Watson. He was surprised to find that he missed him.

"I suppose...like spiders."

Moriarty grinned again. He had been one step ahead of Holmes and it made his blood boil sensationally.

"Suspending on fine strings. Ready to fall. Have already fallen. It's raining outside. Stupid weather forecast. It's almost like a surprise but without cake and balloons. I never liked cake but I really fancied the balloons... especially when they pop...almost like children."

Sherlock touched the coin he had passed to Jim who refused to touch it as if it was a jinx. He noticed that both sides were worn, erasing the imprint that distinguished on from the other. There were no heads or tails. There was no difference. If it were in midair, in a split second before it landed, you would never know which side it would face. There would be no sample space. No probability.

Sherlock realized how improbable Jim and him were. Maybe that's why they didn't fit in with ordinary humans. They were too, improbable. Always full of surprises.

Realization sank into Sherlock's hard drive. All that bloody talk about spiders in the corners. All that bloody rain in England. All those bloody coins manufactured with her face on it.

"And the penny drops," said Jim, with a satisfied lean in his chair.

Sherlock set the coin down. Jim pocketed it like the thieving magpie he was. He couldn't resist.

"I'm not blind, it's raining right now," said Holmes. He shot Jim a look."What happened to your web of contacts?"

"I died. They don't contact me."

" London. You know every quiver of it. Every tingle and shiver in the air. You know it. Your brother knows it. My brother knows it. I don't care."

"Exactly, why I died. Realized how boring things got when people tried to jack my style. I only stayed because of you, Sherlock. You are my existence. You are my web."

"How touching, are you expecting me to play my violin now? Cut to the chase, Moriarty. It's getting boring..."

"Was it too difficult to deduce? I needed a leave! A safety net. I killed you off. With you out of the picture, my existence was unnecessary. I did not want my web to tangle with pesky flies."

"Yet here we are. Alive. Breathing. What about existence now?"

"I guess we'll have to build a new one, eh?"

Sherlock found himself agreeing. "In the shadows. "

"For now..."

Meanwhile, The rain poured relentlessly outside the quiet cafe. It never rained this heavy in central London. Although one could never tell with global warming and excessive spiders occupying corners in walls.

Jim stood staring down at the man he had known ever since he had beaten up big old Carl powers. "Where are you off to?" he asked out of courtesy, a rarity for Jim.

Sherlock didn't respond. His eyes distant and already farther away than Jim could ever go.

Jim didn't expect a reply. He simply wanted to hear the sound of his own voice, making sure, for one last time that this was all real. That they were both alive and ready to play. The game was not over. It never was, this, was just the next level.

He left Holmes in his seat, almost feeling the nostalgic memories radiating out of Sherlock. It was sickening. Jim almost vomited.

With a quick turn on his heel, he got out of the store, shrugged out his overcoat into the nearest rubbish bin, fixed on his earphones and in the pouring rain, he pondered on something that had been bothering him ever since he entered the cafe. He made another sharp turn down the street. He was going to the laundry.

Unbeknownst that behind him, was the fading sound of a violin. Jim couldn't hear it, no one could with the sound of the heavy downpour everywhere. But Sherlock knew that it didn't matter...for what mattered was that one person. The one person who would be listening for him, always.


	10. Pity

**Pity - a word of many definitions.**

Porlock. Porlock. Porlock. How could he be so easily seduced? So easily entangled in this 'Game' only mad men play? And then there was Moriarty. Or Jim so he liked to call himself. He was an actor. His facade was his bravado, vice versa. There was nothing real about him. He was a living lie. A ghost with a million expressions. An idiot so to say the least. He was beyond redemption in Sherlock's eyes. An equal yes, but not an acquaintance, a comrade. Simply a product of a parlay.

Still rooted in his chair, Sherlock wondered once again. His mind wandering, the hard drive part of it willing to burst off its seams. No. He spotted a coffee card on the table - picked it up- wrote a name - and put it in his pocket.

It was the least he could do. What was the word for it? Pity? Guilt? He was never good with feelings but this felt right. Although, he knew she would never make anything of it, it was a part of him. A key to his afterlife. One John should never know about, until the time is right.

As he packed his violin and prepared to leave, a small thought nagged at the corner of his mind.

**He is a liar.**

_So are you._

Inner conflict was new for Sherlock. As he paid the barista, he heard the voice again,

**Walk away.**

_It's too late._

His eyes flicked across the street, a man in a beige jacket, earphones plugged in, a typical Samaritan. Jim. Of course he'd be there. He was a spider, he knew every shiver of London, a web of his own making.

_Luckily,_ Sherlock thought as he shrugged on his own coat, going the opposite direction. _So am I._


	11. Epilogue

**Epilogue - out came the Sun.**

Mrs Hudson? Leave baker Street? England will fall!" - Sherlock Holmes, A Scandal in Belgravia

* * *

John Watson said quietly, "Maybe you should take a break. Maybe we should all just take a break..."

Mrs Hudson nodded slowly. Who was that sister in Glasgow again?

She packed her clothes, she packed her cat. She locked the doors and checked under the mats. She locked her keys and kept her key for the lock in a hidden pocket inside her traveling dress. She did a quick once-over of 221B Baker Street before she found something that were more peculiar than the sudden absence of spiders in the corners.

A small white card, with coffee stained edges. A piece of evidence someone clearly wanted her to find. Her mind wandered and she shuddered. She dared not even think it was... But the stationary was unrecognisable .

Surely he must have written on something! He shot walls, texted, emailed but she never saw his handwriting before! Balderdash. Mrs Hudson then applied some of the deducing skills she'd adopted from him. It dawned to her suddenly - the logbook!

He could be alive. Should she check? Or let sleeping dogs lie? Will it hurt too much? This was too silly. Should she tell John? No. Never. It would hurt. It still hurt. No.

Hours later,

She looked out of the symmetrical train windows and murmured,

"Oh Dear."

As she watched England burn to the ground.

The slight drizzle scared away the faint smell of ash and smoke. And the mighty sun enveloped the dreary English clouds. Mrs Hudson thought of the young man who was afraid of spiders and how he would look in a new light.

Porlock. How curious.

She shook her head and willed the unpleasant cobwebs that rested in her mind. She put a finger to the glass.

_Poor Sherlock._

* * *

**A/N: Thus this story has come to an end. I have officially completed my first ever chapter filled story. I feel very accomplished at this point, judging as to how this is actually completed and not dangling on an eternal cliffhanger. I would like to express my deepest gratitude to everyone who has read it, even if it was just for a glimpse and especially to those who have left such kind comments :) **

**If you like, you could enjoy some of my other stories as well (simply one-shots for now) by clicking 'themanonthemoon' link at the top of the page. If an imaginary force has drawn you southwards, fill in the box with a review!**

**Gracias and Sayonara!**

**- themanonthemoon (who is nor Spanish neither Japanese btw) **


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